Driven by the same instinct that had sent him across the room, Lucien caught the rope and swung outdoors. As he climbed swiftly upward, the mental observer registered a bitter wind, but he felt no discomfort. The exhilaration of the drug still pulsed through his body, and he ascended as effortlessly as if he had wings. Even the awkward task of scrambling over the eaves onto the roof was accomplished with ease.
He released the rope and knelt on the flattened edge while he reconnoitered. The roof was shallow enough to walk on if care was used. Where was the burglar? Not to the right, where a broad expanse of slates stretched emptily. The fellow must have gone left, where a thrusting gable offered concealment.
Lucien's guess was confirmed when he realized that a faint slithering sound was the rope being pulled up and to the left. By the time he noticed, the end of the line was out of his reach.
The burglar must be just on the other side of the gable. Lucien swarmed upward, using the angle between main roof and gable to brace hands and feet and knees. As soon as he lifted his head above the peak of the gable, be was blasted by the full force of the wind. He ducked and steadied himself with a hand on the ridge pole while he looked for his quarry.
Though his black clothing rendering him almost invisible, the burglar was betrayed by his own swift movements. He had crossed Mace's roof and was halfway over the next house as well.
Lucien followed, the hunter instinct singing in his veins with the same exultation that he felt when soaring on horseback over fields and fences. He laughed aloud as he glided over the treacherous slates. Foxes and thieves were only an excuse; what mattered was the pursuit.
The god of the hunt protected him so that he could travel at a speed that swiftly closed the distance between him and his quarry. His mind scarcely connected with his body, he flung himself from gable to chimneys and onto the roof of the next house.
The thief glanced back and spat out an unintelligible oath when he saw that he was still being pursued. Then he launched himself over the gap that separated the second house from the next in the row. On the other side he caught at what appeared to be a rope that he had left earlier. After regaining his footing, he darted across the slates and vanished over another gable, taking the rope with him.
When he reached the edge of the roof, Lucien leaped over the gap without hesitating. But his luck had run out. The roof was pitched more steeply than the previous two, and his feet went out from under him when he landed. He hit hard and rolled, then began sliding down the slates on his belly.
He tried to stop his descent, but there was nothing to cling to. His fingertips skidded over the icy film that covered the slates. With a sense of mild wonder he realized he was plunging inexorably to his death. The drug that clouded his mind bestowed a careless blessing by also blocking fear and pain.
Yet though his mind was indifferent to imminent death, his body reflexively fought for survival, scratching and clawing at the flat, slick stones. On the very edge of the roof, his flailing hand found a small decorative stone rim. It slowed his slide, and he found himself teetering precariously on the edge, his head and shoulders suspended over three and a half stories of dark nothingness as he clung by his fingertips.
Gravity was his enemy, and very soon it would defeat him. It was a damned foolish way to die.
A sharp voice barked, "Catch this!"
Lucien looked up and had a brief impression of something flying toward him from the shadows cast by a cluster of chimneys. Before he could register what it was, a bristly rope end struck him in the face. He lost his tenuous grip on the eaves and plunged headfirst from the roof.
As he fell, by sheer luck he managed to catch the rope with his left hand. The line went taut, and his fall ended with a jerk that tore viciously at the muscles of his arm and shoulder. He ended up swinging one-handed over the void, the wind whistling around him. At first he simply hung there blissfully, entranced by the sheer improbability of his situation.
Reality intruded when he realized that his strained fingers were gradually losing their grip. He caught the rope with his other hand and clambered upward with the same bizarre buoyancy that had gotten him into this fix.
After he hauled himself safely onto the slates, he crouched on his hands and knees and fought for breath. He felt no pain, yet his body insisted on shaking violently.
A low voice cut across the wind, saying, "Thank God!" What a very peculiar burglar. Lucien must meet him.
He scrambled up the roof to the chimneys, supported by the rope. By the time he reached his destination, the thief was retreating, but still close enough for Lucien to grab the back of the man's jacket. "Not so fast, my larcenous friend. I must thank you for saving my life."
The thief tried to tear himself free, but he lost his footing on the icy slates and crashed back onto Lucien. Together they fell into the safe angle between chimney and roof, Lucien on the bottom, his quarry sprawled full-length on top of him.
After Lucien caught his breath, he realized that there was something very familiar about the lithe shape of the thief. And also about the elusive, spicy fragrance of carnation, which was not at all what one would expect of a housebreaker.
He had recently met someone else who wore the scent of carnations. With a feeling of inevitability, he yanked off the black scarf that concealed the burglar's features. The pale oval face was instantly recognizable even in the dark.
Lucien grinned as he settled the long, delightfully feminine length of her against him. "So we meet again, Lady Jane. Or whatever you're calling yourself tonight. It's beginning to seem that we are fated to be together."
"This is farce, not fate," Jane snapped.
She punctuated her remark with an elbow in Lucien's belly as she tried to break free. It would have hurt if his body and mind were properly connected. "You must have a passion to be transported to New South Wales," he remarked as he used a firm embrace to immobilize her arms, "or you wouldn't have broken into a house where a party was in progress."
"I thought Lord Mace must be away because most of the windows were dark." Deprived of her arms, she tried to knee him in the groin.
Fortunately, he was holding her close enough so that she didn't have the leverage to do any damage. "You're very strong for a woman," he said rather breathlessly. "Of course if you weren't, you wouldn't be swinging over the rooftops of London like a demented monkey."
"You should talk! You were taking insane chances. It's amazing you didn't fall sooner." The heels of her hands and her elbows ground into him as she tried to slither from his arms. "Let me go, you big oaf!"
"But I don't want to let you go," he said with breathtaking simplicity. "And at the moment I'm doing only what I want."
"I should have let you fall off the roof!"
"Very likely," he agreed. "But since you didn't, I have a better idea."
He kissed her.
Chapter 9
Infuriatingly, Kit found herself responding to Strathmore's kiss. It was madness when they were sprawled on an icy roof and she had just committed a capital crime, yet the man's humor and sensuality were irresistible. His arms were a warm haven against the cruel night, his mouth and teasing tongue an invitation to erotic pleasures.
As her body softened, he released his steely grip and began caressing her. Even with layers of winter clothing between them, her skin tingled wherever he touched her. One large hand glided over her hip and under her coat, then began stroking the small of her back with a gentle rhythm that eased her tense muscles. Inch by inch, lips and hands and torso, she yielded, instinctively molding her body to his.